


A Rose by Any Other Name

by hawkerfels



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Canonical Character Death, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, Reincarnation, Sex, Slow Burn, Temporary Character Death, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:08:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25185337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawkerfels/pseuds/hawkerfels
Summary: When an unfortunate encounter results in Crowley's assassination Aziraphale makes the phrase 'till death do us part' sound like an insult. Human reincarnation AU where Anathema and Newton know what's up.The story of one Anthony J Crowley and Dr Azriel Fell, two decidedly ordinary human beings with an extra-ordinary origin as they meet a person who seems almost made for them.But there are secrets in the bookshop; waiting for the right time to be discovered. A quiet life may have been too much to ask for when heaven and hell like to keep score.Contains themes of emotional abuse, religion, homophobia (both internal and external), sexual themes and later content of a sexual nature, violence, canonical character death and temporary non-canonical character death. Slow burn, yet considerably faster than six thousand years.Inspired by a piece of art by the wonderful Speremint. (warning implied death/knives)https://speremint.tumblr.com/post/185886122275/iwonthesitatebitchpng-prequel-what-if-gabriel
Relationships: Anathema Device & Newton Pulsifer, Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Beelzebub & Gabriel (Good Omens), Beelzebub/Gabriel (Good Omens), Brian & Pepper & Wensleydale & Adam Young (Good Omens), Crowley & Anathema Device, Hastur & Ligur (Good Omens), Sergeant Shadwell & Madame Tracy (Good Omens), Sergeant Shadwell/Madame Tracy (Good Omens)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 11





	1. Prologue - a Very Bad Day

**Author's Note:**

> Prologue is a short chapter at around 2K - just to set the tone for the rest of the story. I am having a Rough Time with my mental health at the moment and you may have noticed that work on my MHA fic has ground to a halt. I do intend on finishing it, but at this time I am chasing any motivation I have to do anything that makes me feel even a little good so here is the Good Omens fic I have been working on off/on for a few months now.
> 
> I expect us to reach around 11 chapters all in at around 4-6k per chapter but we'll see! Chapter 1 will be uploaded soon, I'm in the editing process and trying to decide how best to break the story down into distinct chapters. 
> 
> Does this premise have any promise? Let me know if this is an idea you are eager to read more about!

* * *

PROLOGUE - a Very Bad Day

_"The course of true love never did run smooth." - A Midsummer Night's Dream; Act 1, Scene 2_

* * *

This was bad. _Very_ bad. _Astronomically, extraordinarily_ BAD.

Aziraphale looked down at his hands as they shook uncontrollably. A thick coating of a silvery liquid ran between his fingers and down his palm. It was warm and sticky. Crowley looked up at him from his position on the ground, shades askew and the same quicksilver running down the edge of his mouth.

It had happened. His worst nightmare. He hadn’t been paying attention and now his demon was paying the price.

It was all over in an instant. One moment they had been talking in the park on a Monday night looking at the stars and the next he had felt a chill through his very spine. He didn’t know how, but Gabriel had managed to possess his corporation and do the unspeakable. 

All Crowley had seen was a pair of amethyst eyes and a flash of white light, and where his Aziraphale had been Gabriel had stood. White hot knife pressed between his shoulder blades and a cold settling into his bones as he felt himself come apart from the inside.

It had been awful, hearing those words in a voice that didn’t belong - uttered by the angel’s lips. 

_Oh Crawley, I would say sorry for the heartache but snakes don’t feel love. Give Aziraphale my best!_

Then it was gone and he was sinking to the floor, Aziraphale looking over him with horror on his features. He was next to him then, grabbing at his suit jacket and pulling him into his lap - tears falling free and tinged with gold.

Lifting a hand up to put over the top of his angel’s, Crowley had managed a half smile. He stifled a cough which came out as more of a sputter. 

“Hey, hey, don’t make that face.” he wheezed, lifting up a bloody hand to wipe at his angel’s tears.

Aziraphale just scowled back at him. The panic was evident in the lines of his face, and if he listened hard enough the redhead might have been able to hear the way his teeth ground together. 

“Don’t _you dare_ tell me not to cry right now Crowley!” he shouted. It was the first time he had ever sounded so angry. 

“Shh, I know love.” was the reply. He did not miss the way that Aziraphale’s wings which had ended up unconsciously shielding the both of them were beginning to lose some of their lustre. A realisation hit him in the pit of his stomach. 

“Hey- Angel-” he began, reaching up desperately to cup his love’s face.

Aziraphale was not listening, instead he was gazing somewhere into the middle distance mumbling to himself as he fumbled with his hands. 

_Oh God, oh Lord, shit!_ **_Shit_ ** _! What do I do? He’s going to die - I killed him-_ **_Gabriel_ ** _killed him. He_ **_murdered_ ** _him!_

“Let me fix this - there must be a way. Gabriel! I’ll _make_ him tell me, we have some time yet-” the angel was rambling, bargaining with himself as to how they could rectify the situation. How to go back to the way they were. His anger radiated from every pore - a righteous fury Crowley would have admired if it didn’t terrify him. “I swear it Crowley, until the end of all time - I will _not_ let him forget this, this _sin_!”

“Aziraphale, please. You’ll fall.” he begged, unwilling to think about what might come next if that should happen.

“I don’t very much care!” was the response, though the angel was shaken by the desperation in his partner’s voice. “I will drag him down with me all the way to hell!”

“Don’t do this, please. I’ll be gone either way, why should you suffer for it.” Crowley groaned, feeling parts of him he didn’t even know he possessed fading. He felt Aziraphale’s hands on his chest now; they had stopped shaking.

“Angel?” he called, concerned. He wasn’t able to see clearly any more, black spots filled his vision along with a creeping dread. He was going to die here. _Really_ die. 

“Shush, dear. Just let me help you.” was the measured response, and Crowley felt a kind of gentle soothing heat ghost over his being.

There was no way to help him now - whatever Gabriel had used was really doing the job. He was going to disappear. Cease to exist. Aziraphale couldn’t possibly heal him from this no matter how great a miracle he could perform.

Crowley realised where this was heading. 

“No - not like this!” he pleaded, grabbing at the angel’s hands. “Don’t. If you give up your immortality for me I have to watch you die!”

Aziraphale simply scowled and continued to focus on his hands.

“I know I’m asking you to do what I can’t but - just let me go.”

There was silence for a while save for the sound of Crowley’s pained gasps and Aziraphale’s heavy breathing. Ultimately the angel looked up at him with a sad smile. It hurt in the core of his being. Everything he was, everything he was made to be was love and light and joy and he had followed that purpose. He had been light and joy and he had loved fiercely even when he did not understand it. All he had ever done was love the world and love Crowley in it. They didn’t want for anything other than to be allowed to live together away from everything else. Maybe they could still have that. 

“Let’s go together.” he said eventually.

“Together?” Crowley asked, unsure of his meaning. The other man picked up his hands and put them onto his chest, covering them with his own.

“I have enough power in me - we can be mortals. We can make a life out of it.” he offered, still looking at Crowley with those sad eyes.

“No - no! I can’t let you give thisss up for me. Angel, you can’t.” he panicked, the idea of Aziraphale as anything other than how he had been made seemed wrong.

“Crowley, _please_.” The blonde’s voice was quiet and filled with a despair that Crowley never wanted to hear in all of his existence.

“Ssstay an angel - maybe I can just be mortal myself. I probably have enough juice left in me.” he glanced down at the hole which had gone all the way through his back and out of his chest as it oozed. “Poor choice of words.”

Aziraphale choked out a laugh to cover a sob.

“You can just kind of _guide me_ or whatever and then I’ll get into heaven and it’s all _fine and dandy_ , yesss?” The demon continued, every word was becoming a chore. 

“Out of the question! No offence, my dear, but to get you into heaven would change who you are at the very core of your being!” Aziraphale balked, seemingly disgusted by the idea. 

“Problem sssolved though, right?” Crowley offered, vaguely aware of the way his blood was splashed across the other man’s face. _Sort of pretty in a morbid way._

“No! Crowley, I would rather risk one lifetime together with you than live an eternity where you are something you’re not. It would be no different to losing you forever.” was the response, the angel’s voice sounding further away now. 

“Church would be a baaad look for me.” Crowley slurred, head lolling back onto the ground. The night sky was still so beautiful.

“I’m glad we understand each other.” Aziraphale was speaking more quickly now, evidently aware of their shortening time limit. 

“What if we never find each other? We won’t remember aaany of thisss.” The redhead mumbled, tears threatening at the corners of his eyes now. 

“We will - I know it.” Was the sure response. 

“I won’t know it’s you.” Crowley choked out with a sob. He never cried, and it burned hotter than he imagined any holy water ever could. More than the wound Gabriel inflicted. Each tear was a trail of hellfire.

“Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds, or bends with the remover to remove.”

If the situation wasn’t so dire, Crowley would have laughed. Trust Aziraphale to quote Shakespeare at a time like this. 

“It isn’t fair…” he grumbled, more to himself than his partner. “I jussst wanted to be together.”

The last thing he saw was a bright white light and the vague shape of his angel hunched over in prayer at his side, tears flowing uninterrupted. 

Crowley felt the silent tears falling from his own eyes, and with a final wave of nauseating fear, allowed himself to slip into unconsciousness. 

The angel hunched over him continued with his ministrations, convinced in the core of his being in the success of his plan. He had to be - or he would fall apart. 

They had been together for millennia - ever since Eden. At first Crowley had been someone he tried to avoid but even Aziraphale had to admit that he was interesting. Striking features and a head of curled red hair. He was friendly, too, against what he had learned about demons. 

At the time he was worried that it was one of those _demonic plots_ to get him to fall or do something he shouldn’t. It wasn’t. Crowley was really just genuinely friendly. Not that he would ever admit it. 

Perhaps he was a little too friendly, at first. Aziraphale would say that the demon ‘wore him down’ but this was not the case. He had been intrigued from the beginning - he just needed a little encouragement and to squash some anxieties before he allowed himself to dip his toes in. 

Six thousand years had gone by so quickly and before they knew it armageddon’t had come around. There were so many things that he had wanted to say and it had taken the veritable end of the world for him to do it. 

They were finally getting to be together - really be together. No fear of what anyone else thought. All that mattered was Crowley. 

All that still mattered was Crowley. 

Aziraphale found himself smiling despite himself - they would be fine. They had to be. It might have taken six thousand years but he knew at the end of it all they were made for each other and in his mind one could not exist without the other. 

He ignored the ugly grief that raised its head at the prospect of failure. He squashed down his regret at the fact that he still hadn’t been able to tell Crowley all of his feelings. The assumption that they would be left alone for a while resulted in a complacency which allowed him to fall back into his slow time progression of their relationship. Now it was too late for that. Too late to mourn lost opportunities - this would work. It _had_ to work. 

Maybe whoever he was in his next existence would have a bit more initiative.

_I’ll see you again soon, dearest one._

  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 1 - A Good Bad Idea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here is chapter 1 in all its glory. Enjoy!
> 
> I may add some visual stuff to this at some point by way of art. Let me know if that's something you're interested in!

* * *

Chapter 1 - A Good Bad Idea

_"There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so" - Hamelt; Act 2, Scene 2_

* * *

Anthony J Crowley, James to his parents - namesake James the Great, St James, son of Zebedee - felt that familiar sensation of anxiety and disgust rising in his stomach. The crumpled letter in his hands told him in bold, red letters that his electricity bill was now _rather overdue._

In the English lexicon it is important to understand that _rather_ is only one step below _decidedly_ on the scale of urgency; and just above _slightly_. 

Sighing heavily he sat up in his seat - an old beat-up sofa he had bought at the British Heart Foundation for more than it was worth - and tossed the letter into the pile on the TV box he was using as a coffee table.  
  


It didn’t matter how demanding the letters became or how small the bill was, Crowley had no income and no way to pay it. One hundred pounds may as well be one million. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He had dreams, once. Ideas, wants, optimism. He had clung on to that last one for longer than he’d admit but now he felt it slip through the cracks. 

His parents had been of an old-fashioned sort, the kind that attended church every Sunday and made dam- _very_ sure that James had gone with them. It wasn’t a problem in itself at the time, church was _fine_ and didn’t cause too many issues. It was only when he had started to get older that cracks began to form. 

Up until the age of twelve, James attended dutifully. He would even have counted himself among those who believed in God and Heaven and Hell and all of the trappings that went with it. Things happened around him which he could only attribute to the sense of humour of some altruistic higher power, whatever form that took. Cars that should have run him flat missed him by inches, he could guess which way a coin flip would land with complete accuracy and had a talent for card games. 

_Luck of the Devil_ his grandfather would say.

Eventually it was this certainty that led to what would become troubled teenage years. Crowley had been a pupil at a catholic primary school - St Peter’s - and was about to move up into a secular high school. His parents had prepared him for what they saw as a challenge of faith. There was no doubt that he would be questioned by his peers, but they were certain that he would know the truth of things - and in that respect they had been _sort of_ right.

James was certain God was real. He was also certain that Hell was a place he would go to if he pissed Her off. He was even more certain that God was a woman - it was something he felt in the fibre of his being. That wasn’t something to bring up at the dinner table though. 

He was also terrified of hell. 

Spending much of his extracurricular time at bible study and with the other Christian members of his year group he was not exactly popular, but neither did he encounter much in the way of issues with other students. He was patient, and answered questions with a confident bluntness that other people respected.

This made the September of his third year at the school a surprise to everyone. James had always been neat and tidy, calm and collected, and spoke with a softness that was unexpected when you looked at his sharp features. This time, however, the boy who returned to the classroom looked nothing like the one who had left.

He wore his red hair longer, and would continue to grow it out for the rest of his time at school. He had lost a considerable amount of weight and, apparently, went through a growth spurt. This made him look lanky and fragile. Gone was the patience, which was replaced instead with a quick temper. He began wearing black Dr Marten boots for school shoes (no matter how many times he was sent to the head teacher) and painting his nails to match. He wore sunglasses indoors despite the protesting of his teachers and would not respond to his name.

No amount of discipline seemed to make a difference.

He stopped attending bible study, and began saying things which unsettled his former friends. Things like “God doesn’t love all people equally”, and “there’s no point trying to please Her, she’s _made us wrong_ ”. They stopped talking to him. His grades slipped. It wasn’t that he couldn’t do the work, he just didn’t try. If anyone asked him why he would just say there was no point. 

What had catalysed this change? A more accurate question is not _what,_ but _whom_ . Crowley’s best friend, Matthew - after the Apostle, St Matthew, Levi - had been coming over frequently at the beginning of the summer. They studied together, played together, and grew their faith together. It was natural, really, that one would feel close to someone they spent a lot of time with. James had been sure that the love he felt for Matthew was a pure emotion - something created by God - and that his desire to hold and kiss the other boy was just a testament to their close friendship. It was a _good thing,_ he reasoned, to be so comfortable with your friend - to feel so close to another person.

At least he had, until he acted on those impulses.

* * *

_It was a Friday evening in June; after the end of the school day. James and Matthew had been working on their homework in his room. The books were put away and they were left sitting on the carpet with nothing but time to kill. As per usual they talked about anything and everything that occurred to them and James found himself smiling - admiring the way that Matthew’s face lit up when he smiled and the neat crop of his brown hair._

_There was a lull in the conversation and before he knew it James was leaning in toward his friend. Their lips met in a nervous, chaste kiss and he immediately realised his mistake. This wasn’t friendship. This wasn’t normal. The heat that coiled in his stomach was desire and it was a white hot pain._

_James felt every cell in his body go cold at the realisation._

_Matthew stared at him, mouth agape and brown eyes wide._

_“James,” he started, looking as if he wanted to reach out to his friend but restraining himself. His outstretched hand returned to his side lamely. “We can’t… this is…”_

_It was then that James realised that Matthew liked him too. What should have been a moment of joy was squashed by a silent terror._

_“I’m sorry.” He said eventually, feeling the tears well up at the corner of his eyes and trying in vain to push them down. “Please forget it.”_

_They were both silent for a while, James’ tears falling quietly into his lap and Matthew staring at the space between realities._

_“We should stop hanging out.” The brunette said eventually._

_This roused James from his crying. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve quickly and turned to look at his friend._

_“What? Why?” he asked incredulously._

_“This is - it’s a sin James.” Matthew responded in an exasperated tone._

_James was angry now, at himself, at Matthew, at God._

_“So? We just don’t do it again! Just go back to how it was - ignore it.” he offered even though he didn’t really believe himself._

_“You know that won’t happen. That’s not how it works.” his friend replied, refusing to look at him._

_“Why not? We can make it work - Matthew you’re…”_

_My best friend. Please don’t leave me._

_“No! James, I can’t be around you. My mum was right.” He stood up now, gathering his bag into his arms. “You’re a bad influence on me.”_

_James knew that Matthew didn’t mean it, it was an attempt to deflect the pain of the situation and rationalise it in his mind. But it hurt, and he found himself getting angrier despite this realisation._

_“I’m a bad influence on you? You didn’t exactly make any effort to stop me!” he scoffed._

_“Because you- you…” Matthew was clenching his fists now, his bag slung over one shoulder. He rounded on James with fury. “You tempted me! I’m not gay! I was just confused by your feelings towards me.”_

_“Matt… you don’t mean that.” said James quietly._

_“I do! I do - you’re trying to steer me off the right path. I’m leaving.” His friend sounded unconvinced but made to leave anyway._

_“I never steered you anywhere! I just got confused. It doesn’t mean anything - it doesn’t have to mean anything.” James was desperate now, he didn’t want to lose his friend. Especially not to something like this. Guilt settled heavier than lead in his stomach and made him want to be sick._

_“It’s too late for that.” Matthew grunted dismissively and headed for the door. “Goodbye James.”_

* * *

Only days later James’ parents sat him down in the living room to ‘talk’. He didn’t remember much of it, there was a lot of yelling from his dad and his mum was crying. She never spoke except to say she knew he was going to hell. It was June 17th. James remembered because it was Matthew’s fourteenth birthday. 

His dad had shouted at him for what could have been minutes or hours. All James could think about was how Matthew had told them. Did he think that ratting him out would somehow clear his conscience? Wipe the slate clean and make nice with God?

_What a load of shit._

One month later at the end of the school year James was sent to a camp for _rebellious_ teens and came back as Crowley. It was a thinly veiled cover for what he would come to know later in life as conversion therapy. 

It didn’t work.

* * *

Hopping from relationship to relationship and job to job had not done Crowley any favours. At thirty years old he had nothing to show for himself except a tiny apartment with sparse furniture and a stack of unfinished canvases. He wanted to be a painter - found that it was something that made him feel useful. Better. Like he could provide something to others. His works were inspired by religion and his identity struggles, and despite all of his hatred for what the church put him through he still felt that it was all true. 

It was God’s fault for making him this way. 

Heaven existed, so did hell, demons and angels and everything was real - he was sure of it in his bones - but he was made incorrectly. From the moment he was born he was doomed and nothing he did could fix it. It was through no fault of his own, it was just how he was. So yes, he thought, God is real but She is a bitch. Why would anyone worship a bitch?

So in some misguided attempt of rebellion against his cosmic destiny Crowley had become interested in the occult. Snakes and demons and devils and spirits. It was only a dabbling really, but witches were a likeable sort and he counted some of his favourite people among them. 

In a previous life he would have cursed these people for what they chose to do. Now, he realised they were just smarter than everyone else. They had realised they were born hopeless right away and leaned right into it. They didn’t care for the opinion of God and Heaven. They made spirits and the celestial work for them.

It was worth noting that Crowley’s understanding of witchcraft may not have been _entirely_ accurate. Though his new friend Anathema had been helping. 

Try as he might he struggled to put his feelings onto canvas. It used to be easy, he churned out work after work and was starting to make a name for himself when a particularly destructive relationship had sucked the air out of his lungs and destroyed his motivation. Now just looking at the myriad incomplete works scattered around the apartment made him sick.

Lighting up a cigarette he inhaled sharply and deeply, letting the smoke escape languidly from between his chapped lips.

_Fuck._

Picking up the small stack of newspapers he had managed to accumulate he went back to what was becoming more of a regular passtime than he would like to admit; looking at job advertisements. There were so many job-seekers’ sites online now that it almost seemed stupid to look at newspaper advertisements. What Crowley had learned, however, through his multiple, failed attempts at careers was that the best jobs were in the paper. They were usually underpaid, in dingy stores or sketchy offices, but they didn’t ask questions. They didn’t care who you were. You could be invisible and make just enough money to get by. Sometimes it was even cash in hand. What the tax man didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

Taking out a pen from his jacket pocket he began circling anything that looked promising. Many of the usual places were there - in the latest paper he even spotted an advert for the job he just lost. 

_They sent this ad in before they even fired me. Bastards._

Then his eyes lingered on a new advert - one he had never seen before in a store he had never heard of. Marking a red ring around it he folded up the page and shoved it into the pocket of his jeans before finishing his cigarette with alarming efficiency. Standing a little too quickly he ignored the rushing sound in his ears, grabbed his keys and staggered out of the door.

* * *

In a not so quiet corner of London stood a very quiet bookshop. Inside that very quiet bookshop was a moderately quiet man. Doctor A Z Fell was a soft-spoken sort, with a roundness to him that made his edges smooth and inviting - in fact he had been described once as ‘friend shaped’ by one Newton Pulsifer. Soft platinum curls framed his face where they hung slightly longer than his ears and his skin shone from within. Not a blemish in sight.

Dr Fell’s parents were, by their own definition, Protestant. He went by Az, mostly, or Zira if he was feeling particular. It had always given him a slight sense of amusement that despite their attempts to give him the most unusual name possible - Azriel, meaning God is my helper - he had grown right into it. There was further amusement in the knowledge that the name had been used for several decidedly _un-righteous_ characters in popular media over the years. 

His parents, for all their faults, had been very good to him. They loved their son unconditionally, taught him about their beliefs but never pushed them on him and had given him all of the tools and confidence he needed to grow into a well-rounded person.

School had been uneventful for Az. He had many friends and was generally well-liked. His teachers thought he was a kind boy and he did well in his classes. A love of books propelled him forward through much of his studies which resulted in, ultimately, a doctorate in English literature and a postgraduate qualification in library management. He was extremely fortunate to work at the London library for a time, however before long he had realised that just working with books was not enough. He wanted to keep books, collect them - in essence what he really desired was his own personal library - but there was no way to get started and make enough money to live on.

So instead he opened a book shop.

This was not his first intention - at one point he had quite fancied himself a clergyman. Although he would not admit it much of his choice against that lifestyle had been due to a rather promiscuous phase in his late teens and early twenties. Now it made his face burn with embarrassment to even think about that time of his life - and, if you looked hard enough, a little self-satisfaction.

It had been a true stroke of luck that he had even found this place. He had a tidy sum tucked away which he used to purchase the shop. Apparently the previous owner had vanished into thin air only a month ago - and despite how they tried nobody could describe him. They were certain they had met him but were unable to recall anything about him. Curious. 

Even more curious, thought Dr Fell, was that nobody had bothered to go through the collection already held here and determine its value. It was by this curious situation that he had gotten a very good price on the building. 

The decor was very much his style and it hadn’t taken much adjusting to bring it up to a standard he was more than happy with. His first month or so in the shop had consisted of locking himself away inside and cataloguing the collection contained within. It was a huge task for a single person, but he did it with a sort of reckless abandon one could easily mistake for the greatest joy. 

The only part of the shop that remained a mystery to him, and likely always would, was a safe in the back room. He had found it hidden behind a chest of drawers and was immediately fascinated with its intricacy. None of the _experts_ he called to look at it had ever seen one like it and nor could any of them open it. 

It just _had_ to contain something rare and unique. He spent more time considering it in his idle moments than he would like to admit. 

Inevitably, his collection began to get a little too large for one person to take care of in any proper manner. This was due in large part to his great efforts to sell far fewer books than he bought. Even with this realisation he didn’t really want another person leafing through what he considered to be an extension of his soul. So he put out an advert. In the paper. 

He secretly hoped that _if_ anyone saw it and applied for the position they would be unsuitable for the task. 

It was during one of these trains of thought that the bell rang signifying that someone had entered the shop. 

In stepped a man who looked to be in his early thirties with a thick head of long red hair that hung in loose curls to his shoulders. He was tall, with striking features and a pair of sunglasses perched on his nose despite the darkening clouds and low lighting inside the shop. 

There was something about him that made Azriel’s throat dry up as if the only way to quench his thirst would be to stare at the man for hours. He really was nice to look at.

Coughing to clear his throat he put on his best smile and crossed the distance from his desk to greet his guest. 

“Good morning!” He beamed, clasping his hands together in front of himself. “Are you looking for something in particular?”

He hoped the man would say something like ‘classics’ or ‘plays’ so that he could have a conversation with him about it - but he also hoped he didn’t because then he really _would_ be attractive and Azriel was not looking for that kind of trouble, no sir.

The only response he got was a business card shoved out of the man’s pocket and into his face. He took it and read it with some interest, fingertips briefly brushing over the stranger’s. They were wearing chipped black nailpolish.

The card was worn, and he had clearly hastily scribbled out whatever original role was printed on it, the card itself had a sleek design with a touch of the abstract to it. It looked like something Azriel would expect to be handed at an art exhibition. All that was now present on the card was a name, an email address and a phone number. 

If he had bothered to look up from the card at any point during this scrutiny he would have noticed the nervous way his visitor was shifting his weight from foot to foot and seemed to be unable to decide what to do with his arms. 

Crowley’s impression of Azriel had been a mixed bag. His fashion sense was undeniably old fashioned and _prim_ . He had a welcoming presence that would, for anyone else, be calming and warm. Crowley, however, just felt unsettled by the waves of _niceness_ that seemed to radiate from the man. He was shorter than him, with a blinding smile and hair that reminded him of teddy bear fur. At least, insofar as its softness and that fluffy quality it seemed to have. He was attractive in an ‘ _I want to spoil this man’s innocence’_ kind of way. He would call him _pretty_ as opposed to handsome, _beautiful_ even. Crowley felt a little bit of amusement at the thought of this clearly straight-laced man being involved in anything remotely untoward. He was lost in concentration, following the lines of the other man’s face when the shop owner looked up and their eyes met. Crowley panicked for a moment before realising that his shades would prevent the other man knowing where he had been looking. His eyes were so _blue_. 

That initial feeling of reluctant attraction and intrigue was replaced by an ever-familiar guilt which seeped out from the very core of his bones and into every fibre of his being. No matter how much distance he put between himself and his past he still felt ashamed whenever he thought about another man in that way.

_Imagine how he would feel if he knew, disgusted no doubt._

And yet Crowley found it hard to imagine what such an emotion would even look like on the other man’s face. There was something strangely familiar about him.

“Ah, Anthony - nice to meet you.” The sound of the other man’s soft-spoken voice broke him out of his thoughts. 

He winced at the use of his first name, already regretting his decision to come here. 

“Actually, I go by Crowley.” He said, mumbling. 

“Mr Crowley.” Dr Fell smiled warmly. It was nice. Crowley knew his name from the signage on the shop. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

_I should be the one asking that._ Thought the redhead, catching himself with a grimace and another pang of inward disgust.

“There was an advert. In the paper.” he grumbled, eyes looking anywhere but at the other man.

The blond was fighting an internal battle of his own - on the one hand he didn’t actually want anyone else working at the shop, and yet on the other he found himself inexplicably curious about his impromptu visitor. It wouldn’t be _bad_ to have Mr Crowley around, in fact it could be quite the opposite! Mr Crowley, however, struck Azriel as the smooth, modern type. Quick thinker, fast talker. Short attention span.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to be a little more specific.” Azriel chuckled awkwardly and pocketed the business card anyway. 

Crowley didn’t have the confidence to tell him that what he had just kept was his _only_ remaining business card and he should very much like it back. It was while trying to think of a way to get it returned to him that he noticed the glint of golden metal around the other man’s neck. Eyes drawn to a simple cross hanging from a chain. 

_Fuck._

That earlier guilt intensified itself tenfold until the weight of it threatened to crush his lungs and take his legs out from underneath him.

“You know what,” he started, tongue heavy in his mouth. “Probably want someone better than me.”

Azriel was taken aback.

“Sorry?” he blinked in surprise.

“I’m a bad worker - terrible really. Lazy, unmotivated.” Crowley rambled, gesticulating wildly as he went. “Ya know what, I’ll just see myself out. Save us both the trouble.” he was backing up towards the exit as he said this.

The sudden one-eighty was causing Azriel a great deal of confusion. Did he want the job or not? He seemed fairly keen only moments ago. Did he say something offensive? Maybe he was misgendering them or making assumptions he shouldn’t. He wanted to ask what the issue was, but his underlying desire to keep the shop to himself kept a lid on it. Instead he opted for a very bland gesture of consideration.

“You should at least wait for the rain to subside. It’s like the end of the world out there.”

Swallowing roughly, Crowley was forced to admit that he didn’t fancy the walk back to his car in this weather. The heavens had opened during the short space of time they were talking. With a slight incline of the head and a nonchalant wave of the hand he sauntered off to another section of the store. Pleasantly surprised that the eccentric owner did not follow him. If he was going to be stuck in here for a while he could do without staring at the attractive man whose belief system was so apparently at odds with his own. 

It was a surprise, then, to find himself in a section of the store dedicated to books on what he would call _progressive_ content. For a bookstore to carry books on modern topics was not abnormal, but Crowley had not expected these titles to be among Dr Fell’s collection. The system in this store also made no sense. It wasn’t like any bookstore he had been in before - not that he spent time in bookshops of course - and was, in fact, more reminiscent of a library. Again, not that he frequented libraries and anyone who said that he did was a dirty liar. 

This place was almost like a personal collection.

A sharp cough brought him out of his thoughts. He almost jumped out of his skin when he saw that Dr Fell had appeared next to him.

“I have some recommendations if you are looking to widen your worldview.” the blond offered, smiling genuinely.

“Beg pardon?” Crowley asked, confused and aware that his ears were on fire.

“I don’t mean to presume - only you were so fixated on _Why I’m no Longer Talking to White People about Race_ that I thought it might burst into flame. It’s a fascinating read - and all contextualised for the British reader.”

A realisation struck the redhead that both intrigued and concerned him.

“Dr Fell,” he began slowly. “have you read all of these books?”

He laughed brightly, and Crowley admired the way his eyes creased.

“You have caught me out.” Dr Fell began, grabbing a book from one of the shelves and looking at it fondly. “I collect books more than I wish to sell them. I haven’t read all of them though I do intend to do so!”

His smile was brighter than the sun, it hurt Crowley’s eyes and yet he couldn’t look away. This was bad. He should leave now. If he knows what’s good for him he will walk out of that door this instant.

He didn’t.

“Oh, and please - Dr Fell is my father. Az is perfectly acceptable.”

“Az? That short for something?” the taller man found himself falling into an easy conversation with the bookseller. Mulling over the way the new, more casual moniker felt in his mouth.

“ _Azriel_ if you must know.” Az sounded a little embarrassed as he said this, cheeks tinged pink.

Crowley didn’t know what he expected, but it certainly hadn’t been a name like that. The cynical part of him was almost preparing for another _Matthew_.

“Huh, good name.” he offered by way of a response.

“Do you think so? I must say I’ve grown into it over the years.” Az replied, brightening.

“Whoever gave it to you cared about you.” 

Azriel was intrigued as to what he meant by that statement, raising an eyebrow in contemplation.

“That observation comes from…?” he asked, regarding the other man with a steady gaze.

Oh how he wished he would take off those infuriating sunglasses so he could read his expression better.

“Well it’s a hope isn’t it? Protected by God or whatever.” Crowley answered sheepishly.

The blond was greatly impressed.

“Quite right! Excellent Mr Crowley, colour me surprised.” he gushed, excited at the prospect of his new acquaintance being a great deal more relatable than he had previously assumed.

The taller man was frowning, trying to calm his racing heartbeat at the genuine way the bookshop owner had responded to him.

“Surprised?” he began. “And stop with the Mr. “ _My dad was Mr Crowley._ ” he repeated Azriel’s earlier words in a facsimile of his accent, encouraged by the way that the other man was responding to the conversation.

This was nice, he would have to end it soon. The shorter man was beaming, and regarding him with an honest warmth.

“Crowley,” he corrected himself, standing straight. “I meant no offence. It isn’t a name many would recognise.”

The silence between them stretched out uncomfortably for a beat too long. At least in Crowley’s opinion. He doubted Azriel could even feel discomfort with the way that cheerful expression never left his face.

“You’ve got an interesting collection. Could do with more on art history though. Got a few recommendations,” he offered, floundering a little when he recognised his words. “I mean, maybe.”

“I would be delighted! Do you have an interest in art, Crowley?” Az seemed even brighter than before, and was greatly enjoying their conversation.

They were making progress, this was good! Maybe he could learn something about the stranger - no, the new acquaintance. That didn’t feel right either. Something about the redhead was comfortably familiar in a way that no word Azriel used seemed appropriate to describe him.

Well, there were a few _inappropriate_ words that definitely described him.

“Not particularly.” grumbled the taller man, effectively ending that line of conversation.

Curiouser and curiouser.

“You know, the position here is still open if you want it. I am afraid my rates aren’t particularly competitive and honestly I would prefer to be left well enough alone.” Azriel sighed and looked around at his shop with fondness. “I am not the most social of people, and imagine my lifestyle to be quite boring for people who are caught up in the tempo of London as a whole. All I require is someone who can follow simple instructions and treat my belongings with respect.”

Crowley mulled this over. It was a bad idea by all accounts. The man was kind and friendly, soft and welcoming, pretty and sweet. It was awful. He had a _cross_ around his _goddamn neck_ for Christ’s sake. It was like someone took everything the redhead liked and smashed it headlong into everything he hated and handed it over to him in one entirely indiscreet package.

“Cash?” he found himself asking, despite himself.

“If required.” was the response.

“How much?” he probed.

“Shall we say ten per hour?”

Azriel knew his rate was high. Initially he was never going to offer that amount of money. He was going to low-ball the gentleman so much that he would never consider taking the offer. However the more they spoke, the more he wanted to know about this curious person with the snake tattoo on his face. He had the distinct feeling that if they went their separate ways today he would never see them again. So he pitched an offer no sane person in Crowley’s position would refuse.

Crowley nearly choked on his own spit, ten pounds an hour in cash was a _very_ competitive rate if his previous experience was anything to go by. He would normally be lucky to get offered minimum wage for an under-the-table kind of deal.

“When do you need me to start?” the redhead asked a little too quickly.

“Is Monday agreeable?” the blond offered.

“It’s a deal, _Azriel_.” Crowley grinned, holding out a hand to the other man.

“Crowley.” was the response, as Azriel took the outstretched hand into a firm handshake.

Crowley could swear the shorter man wore a grin almost as conniving as his own.

He wasn’t wrong.

* * *

The journey back to his apartment had been considerably better than the one he made on the way out. His key refused to turn in the lock, which could only mean one thing.

Crowley rolled his eyes and pushed open the already unlocked door to be greeted with the sight of two people sitting on his sofa.

“Why do you insist on picking my lock every other night?” he asked incredulously, slumping himself down in the mismatched armchair across from them.

“Did you get the job?” the woman asked him, ignoring his words.

“What? Oh, yeah.” he grinned, kicking his feet up and over one of the arms of the chair so that he was slumped across it. “Can you stop doing that, it’s creepy.”

“Doing what?” she asked, her American accent a stark contrast to Crowley’s own.

“Acting like you know what I’m going to do and when.”

“She sort of does though.” it was the man sitting next to her who piped up now, his glasses sliding a little down the bridge of his nose. He adjusted them nervously.

Anathema Device and Newton Pulsifer had been friends of Anthony J Crowley for several months now. They had been friends with the demon Crowley for a little shy of that. Anathema and Newt were two of the only people in the world who were still aware of who exactly Crowley was, and as an addition to that who Aziraphale was. 

It was inaccurate, perhaps, to say that both Anathema and Newt were aware of their celestial origins. Anathema was aware, and remembered in detail all of their interactions. Newton did not, but had been reliably informed by his girlfriend of the information. He believed every word.

The only thing which perplexed the witch, was the way that their timelines had matched up. She was beside herself with curiosity over how exactly they had come into being. When they ‘died’, how did they get born? They had disappeared and no less than twenty-four hours later Anathema had met Anthony. Newton had met Aziraphale at the same time and told her about it later. He had not been aware of the significance at the time, but he certainly was now.

Did their souls, or whatever made them who they were, go back in time to be this age now? Did they simply come into being as they were now with fabricated memories and experiences and lives? 

It wasn’t as if she could ask Aziraphale about it - he wouldn’t remember. She also didn’t know what it might do to them if they were made to remember before the right time.

“Alright, what do you want?” Crowley asked, bringing her out of her thoughts.

“We came to deliver the table - remember?” she asked, gesturing to the Ikea coffee table they had brought with them. It sat in the corner of the mostly barren room.

Crowley did not remember. How could he? They had never told him they were bringing the table. However, he nodded all the same.

“Oh, yeah, of course. Cheers.”

“Not a problem.” she smiled sweetly, looking at Newton out of the corner of her eye who was regarding her with some discomfort. 

He trusted her, but wished she would let him in on her plans sometimes.

“We’ll get going then.” he offered, standing up.

Crowley always thought that Newton’s fashion sense could use some work. Today was no exception, with that khaki cable knit over the white shirt. Corduroys and converse. Someone needed to tell him that geek-chic was _not a thing_.

Anathema swept her long, raven hair into a bun on top of her head and got up with him. The redhead barely acknowledged their leaving and was instead deeply invested in the book he held in his hands.

Crowley was busy _widening his worldview_ through the words of Reni Eddo-Lodge, on the recommendation of a certain bookshop owner. 

He didn’t know it yet, but he was already hopelessly screwed.


	3. Chapter 2 - Communication

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here we go again!

* * *

Chapter 2 - Communication

Weeks 1&2

_“He stepped down, trying not to look long at her, as if she were the sun, yet he saw her, like the sun, even without looking.” - Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy_

* * *

“I’m not sure what there really is to be worried about…” Newt trailed off as he placed a cup of tea on the table beside Anathema and sat across from her with his own. “They’re just people, now, right?”

The witch was surrounded by scraps of paper and reference books covered in notes, with her round-framed glasses perched on the end of her nose. Newton Pulsifer was not a man of many words at the best of times, but even less so when he was presented with what he thought was nothing short of a vision of beauty. Every day, even now, Anathema Device took his breath away.

“Well yes, but also no.” she replied, never looking up from her writing.

He knew better than to interrupt her with anything unrelated at times like this, so stuck to questions on the topic at hand.

“I thought the point was they died - or whatever happened - and then they came back as humans?” he asked, blowing on his too-hot tea with futility. The steam was fogging up the lenses of his glasses.

“They did, but they also didn’t.”

Her responses weren’t shedding any more light on the situation, so Newt resolved himself to sip on his drink quietly and watch the world outside of the cottage window. He didn’t notice his companion’s eyes flick up to regard him with a silent appreciation. It would probably make him anxious to know that Anathema looked at him with the same warmth and fondness as he did her.

“Living things have souls.” she offered, and his eyes snapped back to meet hers.

“I sort of assumed that with all the other stuff that’s gone on.” he replied, smiling weakly.

“A soul has its own nature - remember with Adam?” she asked, and he knitted his brows together in thought.

“You mean when you were talking about uh, what was it…” he trailed off.

“Auras.” she completed for him.

“Yeah, that.”

Newt nodded a little too enthusiastically and his glasses slid down his nose. He used one hand to push them back up while trying to minimise the amount of time his other hand was on the hot cup.

“Exactly. So, they’re human for all intents and purposes - but their auras _aren’t_. It’s like they’ve been stuffed inside something that wasn’t made to contain them.” Anathema elaborated, frowning in thought. Her raven hair fell about her face in strands from her messy bun.

“How can you tell?” asked Newt.

“With Adam I couldn’t see any aura at all and I assumed it was me - but it was because of what he is. With those two I can see them but they’re not like anything I’ve seen before.”

Newton was silent for a while, staring pensively into his now empty mug and tapping his fingers on the sides.

“What do they look like?” he asked, eventually.

“Hm?” Anathema had gone back to her notes and was not paying attention to him.

“An angel and a demon’s _auras_.”

She pulled her glasses from her face and set them down next to her before leaning back in her seat.

“Aziraphale shines. It’s bright, so bright it’s blinding if I try to look at it for too long. It’s also soft, sort of warm and inviting. It affects everything around it. My brain reconciles it into a ring of white light around his head.” the witch explained, gesticulating with her hands as she spoke. “- but not a halo.” she added hastily. Newt loved seeing her excited about something.

“It sounds kind of pretty.” he offered by way of input into the conversation.

“It is. Crowley is easier to look at only because he doesn’t glow like that. It’s like he doesn’t belong in the space he occupies - if I really focus on it the area around him fizzes and crackles like an old TV. There’s a layer of darkness around him that is thin but tangible. Again, it gets flattened to this dark, negative space around his head. If I stare into it it feels like it’s staring back at me.”

“That is… terrifying.” Newt took a big gulp of his tea and shivered a little at the thought. _Stare into the abyss and the abyss stares back_.

“He is a demon.” the raven haired woman responded.

“Yes but,” Newt didn’t want to say _the Crowley I know is actually quite soft and nice_ lest he invoke Hell’s wrath. “He’s not so scary when you can’t see that.”

“I don’t even know if that’s the full extent of what their essence really looks like - I can’t view it like that for long before it becomes those circles and even then it’s like my mind doesn’t have the space to fully comprehend it.”

It was only now she noticed the mug next to her, lifting it to her lips and taking an experimental sip. It was cold, and vastly different to the herbal varieties she had been drinking before now, but Newton had made it and so she would drink it without complaint. He’d added sugar which made it overly-sweet to her taste.

“So why does this mean there could be problems?” Newton asked her, bringing their conversation full circle.

“If I can see it, others can see it. Maybe sense it more accurately than I can.” she explained.

“Oh, but wouldn’t anyone who could tell have already said something if they wanted to?” Newt asked, placing the mug down on the table and shrugging his shoulders.

“I’ve been getting Crowley to practice protection spells. I don’t know how Aziraphale hasn’t been found yet.”

He thought the idea of Crowley taking part in witchy-things was quite amusing.

“Maybe he’s just keeping to himself.” he offered.

“The bookshop itself has a convergence of energy at its centre - it’s like a huge sign saying ‘celestial being within’.” Anathema sighed, looking out at the rain.

“Maybe he set up wards when he was there?”

Anathema was impressed by the little bits of knowledge Newt had been picking up and smiled at the use of it.

“No, if that were the case I wouldn’t be able to sense it either. I think he’s just been really, extremely _lucky_.”

“Really?” Newt asked, surprised that his girlfriend couldn’t think of another reason for it. She always seemed to have a reason.  
“I’m not sure, but I can’t ask him about it.” she was frowning now, her boyfriend chuckling a little under his breath.

“That’s an odd dynamic, don’t you think?” he said.

“How so?”

“Crowley working for Aziraphale - I don’t really remember them before this but when you talk about them it feels familiar. And I feel like I know them both well. It just seems weird.” he explained, smiling to himself.

“Maybe, or it’s just the universe’s way of putting them together. They seemed to be getting somewhere and now they’ve gone back to square one.” she sighed. No person in any realm was a bigger fan of Crowley and Aziraphale’s relationship than Anathema Device. It wasn’t that she had any particular interest in them being together or a desire to know much about it - it was just that deep down there was something very romantic about an angel and a demon who were very clearly _supposed_ to be together dancing around each other for millennia. And she liked Crowley a lot. He was her friend and she missed him. The human Crowley had the same soul but he didn’t know her like he used to - and what is a friendship except shared experiences?

“I don’t really remember.” Newt conceded.

“No, I suppose not. We need to speak to the angel.”

“How do you plan on doing that without telling him about things?”

“I’ll figure something out.”

Newt smiled slightly, Anathema always did figure things out. One way or another.

It had been a number of weeks since Anathema had last visited Crowley. They spoke on the phone regularly and texted on a daily basis. Inconsequential things, but it was nice all the same. She would tease him about his perpetual singleness and he would poke fun at her for going out with a man who was supposed to be a witchfinder when she herself was a witch.

It was good-natured and comfortable. So when she asked him to start performing protection spells at work he had responded with a confounded skepticism.

In the end, she said, it was the only option they had for now until she could work on a better solution.

He reminded her that his clearly religious boss might kill him if he knew he was doing witchcraft in his home. She had said it was a matter of great importance.

So he relented.

Short of being physically seen at the shop it was highly unlikely they would be found, for now at least.  
  


* * *

MONDAY

* * *

Azriel was pleasantly surprised when Crowley turned up again for work on Monday. He had almost been expecting the other man to disappear without a trace like so much smoke between his fingers.

Instead, he was greeted with a fairly _chipper_ attitude from the redhead considering it was early in the morning. Well, not _too_ early. Azriel was a reasonable man and assumed there was no need for anyone to be out and about prior to nine a.m. It was early by Crowley’s standards, who preferred to sleep most of the day away and stay up for most of the night.

He had been working at the bookshop for a little over a week now. It was pleasant - time passed slowly there and most of the time it was only him and Azriel. They had spent their days in a relatively comfortable silence for most of the first week he was there; aside from the blond showing him how to do certain tasks. He found the idea of going to work was much less terrible than it had been.

“Morning, sunshine.” he said with a slight smirk, Azriel rolled his eyes.

“Good morning, Crowley.” he replied, gesturing for him to come over to the register. “I’ve got a few things that need doing today so your help is greatly appreciated.”

“Straight to business, and here my horoscope said if I had a good attitude I’d have a good day.” the taller man huffed before making his way languidly over to stand beside his boss.

“Working with me isn’t a good day?” Azriel asked, pretending to be upset. It didn’t work very well when Crowley could see the smile tugging at his mouth.

“Goodness runs on a scale, I was hoping for something a little higher on the good side.” he exaggerated his point with his hands.

“Then I shall endeavor to entertain - I wouldn't want to be _disappointing_.” the other man retorted, enunciating the last word with some extra emphasis.

Crowley smirked down at him, pushing down the desire to go on like this teasing him for the rest of the morning. It was becoming a distraction, really, the way they got on. 

_Like a house on fire._

He knew that really he should be running for his life out of the store and down the street and never coming back, but something was anchoring him here with a force he couldn’t overcome. 

Perhaps not _something_ , but _someone._

Azriel was feeling a little over-examined under the other man’s steady gaze. Or at least what he assumed was a steady gaze, considering he refused to remove those sunglasses no matter the weather or reason. He swallowed thickly, aware that the sensation was not an unpleasant one.

“Never mind. What are we doing?” Crowley asked eventually to put them back on track.

“Do you want the good news or the slightly less good news?” replied Azriel with a laugh.

“Isn’t that bad news?” the other man frowned, crossing his arms over his chest.

“ _Goodness runs on a scale.”_ his boss replied in a facsimile of his accent, with a smile that was all too wicked for his soft features.

“For fuck’s sake, go on then.” Crowley threw up his hands in an attempt to calm his racing heartbeat and distract from what he imagined was a fairly red face.

“The good news is that the shop will not be open to customers this week.” 

“And the _slightly less good news_?” 

It was quiet for a few moments while Azriel fiddled with the top button of his brown waistcoat.

“We need to complete an inventory of the whole store by the end of the week.” he mumbled, barely audibly.

“What?” Crowley groaned, looking around at the shelves. There were hundreds if not thousands of books to go through, not to mention various other items of tat. “The whole store?” he asked nervously, running his hands down his face in exasperation. He didn’t really want the answer.

“Yes - I’ve not had a chance to really go through what’s here, which is partly why you were hired in the first place if you remember.”

At least Azriel had the decency to sound apologetic. Crowley looked down at him and sighed heavily as he removed his hands from his face. The man was too cute for his own good, all smiles and sweetness and just occasionally - on times like this - a nervous disposition reared its head. Shoving those thoughts unceremoniously to the back of his skull the taller man took pity on his boss and ended his discomfort.

“Alright, just show me what I need to write down so I can get this over with.” he grumbled, leaning over to look at the papers spread out on the counter top.

“That’s the spirit!” Azriel wore a self-satisfied grin which told Crowley this was intended as an insult rather than an encouragement.

“Don’t push it.” he huffed between gritted teeth and they both set to work.

It was going to be a long week.

* * *

TUESDAY

* * *

  
Working at the shop was not a difficult job. It really was, as Azriel said, just looking after the books for the most part. Time passed in comfortable silence peppered with equally comfortable conversation. Crowley didn’t think that Azriel was capable of feeling uncomfortable. The man radiated peace and contentment even if a situation was awkward. That in itself was more unsettling to the redhead than anything else. 

It was during one of his moments of silent contemplation that Crowley was approached by the other man. He hadn’t noticed him at first, almost jumping out of his skin when he turned around to see him standing there.

“Bloody Hell!” he breathed, clutching at his chest. “Do you make a habit of lurking around and giving people heart attacks?”

Azriel simply smiled at him, stifling a chuckle with his hand in a gesture far too graceful for Crowley’s taste.

“Apologies dear boy, I didn’t think you were so absorbed in Tolstoy and his associates.” he said, gesturing to the shelf that the redhead was standing next to. Classic Russian authors proudly emblazoned on each cover. Some of the volumes were actually _in_ Russian.

“Wouldn’t know anything about Tolstoy - _Everything intelligent is so boring.”_ He mocked while continuing to face the shelf, sparing a glance at Azriel out of the corner of his eye.

The blond beamed brighter if that was even possible.

“Anna Karenina!” he exclaimed with a joy too unashamed to be fake. “I think you are far better read than you would like me to believe.”

Every now and again Crowley would do something that caused his companion to react as if the sun shined out of his backside and, short of spontaneously combusting, there was very little he could do to deal with it. Each time he resorted to deflection and avoided looking at Azriel’s face. Unfortunately for Crowley he didn’t need to be looking at his companion to know what expression he would be wearing and how it almost felt like it was especially for him.

“Me? Read? Never learned how.” he dismissed Azriel with a wave of the hand.

The blond, however, was far too enthused to be placated with such a poor attempt at self-deprecating humour as this. He flat-out ignored it, instead overtaken with the prospect of a stimulating conversation. He liked Crowley, and knew that he knew more about a great deal of things than he cared to admit. Whenever he managed to get something out of him it felt like a small victory, a triumph, he was conqueror of the indomitable will of -

That line of thinking was not helping him to continue the conversation, nor to forget how good his companion looked when he had been bested in a verbal battle of wits.

“Personally I liked _Smert’ Ivana Ilyicha_ _;_ The Death of Ivan Ilyich - that book on the top shelf there!” he continued the conversation, voice a little higher and louder than it should have been. Crowley raised an eyebrow. “That’s a very old Russian print but not worth much monetarily.”

“You speak Russian?” the taller man asked, surprised.

“Ah, barely. Not one of my more familiar languages. I do find Cyrillic languages fascinating, however.” Azriel replied, smiling.

The silence between them stretched out for a little too long and Crowley found himself becoming uncomfortable. Azriel wore that same unfaltering smile and he wondered what it must be like to be perpetually happy with your lot in life. If he had any idea of what kinds of thoughts really lingered in the shorter man’s subconscious he would not want to swap so easily.

“Did you want something?” he asked eventually, breaking the spell.

  
“Oh! Yes, I forgot after we got talking. I wondered if you might come look at this shelf over here with me.” Azriel gestured to a section of the store a little way over to their left.

“Why?” Crowley asked, suspicious of his companion’s intentions. Especially after having the stock take dropped on him yesterday.

  
This is why he had trust issues.

“Well, partly as I am your boss.” the other man chided playfully. “And partly because I value your input in this particular area.” 

Curiosity piqued, Crowley allowed himself to be led over to the shelf in question. It was fairly empty when compared with some of the others and also disorganised. A quick glance at the titles showed him that all of the books here related to art and art history in some way or another. A cold dread sank its way into the pit of his stomach.

“Why do you think I know anything about this?” he asked, looking anywhere but at Azriel.

“You made a comment to the effect the first time you came here,” the blond replied cheerfully. “and I have seen you flick through a few of them when you think I’m not looking.” 

“Oh.” Crowley choked on his own saliva, surprised that Azriel even remembered that brief bit of conversation - nevermind made any sort of deductions from it. 

There definitely was room for improvement in the collection and thinking about it helped him to calm himself down from a place of embarrassment and delight. Crowley _craved_ attention, though he would never admit it, and the fact that Azriel remembered this little bit of information made him feel valued. The fact that he’d been caught flicking through the books mortified him and would do nothing good for his reputation.

“It would be good to get a bigger variety, I think.” he said eventually.

“Yes? I do have many of the same names here.” Azriel tapped his chin thoughtfully while looking over the shelf himself.

“Yeah, there are a few key players missing the party.”

“Could you write them down for me? If you can find their ISBNs I would also be extremely grateful.” The blond handed him a small notebook and a pen which he took delicately.

The notebook was too small to avoid touching the other man’s hand and Crowley was greeted with the sensation of warm, soft skin under the pads of his fingers. If he wasn’t careful this job was going to take years off his life with the way his blood pressure was going.

“I think I can do that.” he mumbled, holding the notepad like a precious object.

“Splendid! I’ll leave you to it - do make sure you spend a decent amount of time cataloguing what is here and what _ought to be._ Wouldn’t want to miss anything.” Azriel began walking back to another area of the shop before calling back to him. “Duplicates in the box by your feet!”

“Sure…” Crowley watched him go until he was out of sight.

As soon as he disappeared the redhead let out a groan and rubbed at his eyes with his spare hand. This was too much. He was like a teenager getting flustered when the cute boy down the hall looked in his direction.

Time to put that _firmly_ away to the back of his mind and ignore it. Ignore it until it died a death, just like always.

Azriel, for all his appearances, was no more composed than his companion. He had deliberately marched himself away to be the furthest distance possible from Crowley and was now struggling to catalogue the gardening books because he had instead ended up staring down at his hand for the last five minutes.

Where Crowley’s fingers touched burned like fire.

_Absolutely not!_ He told himself, shoving a reference book about common British weeds back onto the shelf with a little more force than necessary.

This would lead nowhere good, of that he was certain.

* * *

Crowley’s evening was filled with searches for books, their prices, the ISBN - any bit of information he thought would be useful to Azriel. It was when he was sitting on his sofa, laptop on his knees and various scraps of paper strewn around him that he realised he might be spending a little too much time on this.

Reaching for his phone he sent a text to the first person he could think of.

  
  


Anathema was right as much as she was infuriating, he needed to stop worrying about it so much and just give Azriel the list. Just as he was about to close his laptop and go to bed a particular title caught his eye on the page he was browsing. Letting out a little huff of appreciation Crowley decided that there were a few other recommendations he could make to his boss - just on the off chance he was feeling charitable.

Adding the new information to his list he worked away until the small hours of the morning with only the light from his screen for company.

* * *

WEDNESDAY

* * *

“I made that list you asked for.” Crowley called as he entered the shop, looking down at the offending piece of paper in his hands.

“Oh super! Please bring it here.” Azriel appeared from behind some shelves and made his way over to the other man. He took the paper gladly and ran his eyes over it. “Some of these are names I recognise, you have splendid handwriting.”

  
“I know the list is a little long.” Crowley replied, ignoring the compliment.

The blond waved him off, making his way back into the depths of the shop while continuing to read the paper.

“I’d rather you over-recommend than under-recommend. Leave it with me.”

“Sure.” was all that the other man could say as he watched him go. 

The rest of the day was spent continuing with the stock-take, and as days go was fairly uneventful. Azriel spent a period of time on his ancient computer and Crowley found writing everything down by hand was actually faster than waiting for him to print off spreadsheets.

It was _nice._

* * *

THURSDAY

* * *

Sparing a glance at the clock Azriel could see that the time read one in the afternoon. He and Crowley had just finished cataloguing the last of the books in the store - and it was, by all accounts, lunch time. Nodding to himself resolutely he smiled at his companion.

“Grab your coat.” he instructed him, moving to grab his own.

Crowley was confused. Not least of all because the only phrase he had ever heard follow that sentence was _you’ve pulled._

“Why?” he asked, suspicious.

“We’ve been at this all week and I think a little lunch break would do us some good, don’t you?” was the response and he let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding.

“Out?”

“Yes! There’s a place I’ve been wanting to try.” Azriel seemed to realise something before adding: “My treat, of course, since I asked you.”

“Alright.” Crowley nodded, grabbing his jacket from the rack and following his companion out of the door.

It was a crisp day and despite the cold it was actually quite pleasant. Azriel made a beeline for a cafe across the street with the other man a few steps behind. Once inside they found a spot near the window where Crowley could sit on the soft furnishings against the wall - leaving Azriel to sit on the chair opposite.

“If you have the appetite for it you simply _must_ try the bacon and lentil soup alongside whatever you like the sound of.” he implored the other man. “It is _heavenly_.”

The cafe itself was small but had the kind of decor that Crowley thought they would advertise as ‘rustic Italian’. It fancied itself an upmarket place selling overpriced coffee without quite the same corporate chain feel as Starbucks or Costa. Azriel noticed him eyeing the coffee menu on the wall.

“If I’m honest the coffee isn’t much to write home about - but the food is quite excellent. They hired a new chef a few months ago and he’s been a treat.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow with a smirk which earned him a harsh look from the other man.

“Oh you know what I meant!”

In the end Crowley ordered the aforementioned soup and nothing else - much to the shock and distaste of Azriel who had the soup, a Caesar salad and a bacon roll. Rather than coffee they had opted to share a pot of tea. The food was good but the conversation was better. 

Crowley learned that Azriel loved to dance even though he was no good at it, that he had never been able to keep a single plant alive and that he’d once bought a girlfriend a ring as a birthday present. She had assumed they were engaged and he had to defuse that situation very delicately. It had, apparently, been a mess.

Azriel had learned that Crowley no longer spoke to his family, that they were both acquaintances of Anathema Device and Newton Pulsifer, and that he was something of an expert when it came to plant husbandry. He avowed to bring more greenery into the shop. Crowley had seemed genuinely excited by this prospect.

It was all in all, a good lunch break. So good, in fact, that it turned into the remainder of the day. The task set was done, reasoned Azriel. Crowley was not going to argue.

They parted ways a little after four in the afternoon.

* * *

FRIDAY

* * *

By the time Friday rolled around Crowley walked into the shop to be greeted by a nonchalant _welcome back_ from the far end of the shop and a stack of boxes by the door.

Azriel appeared from the back of the shop with a different outfit on compared to his usual attire. He was still wearing a pair of tan trousers and those dark brown brogues but his suspenders and waistcoat were discarded, along with the bow tie. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and he had a healthy flush to his features. The top button was undone, leaving Crowley’s mouth a little dry at the tiny amount of extra skin that was exposed there. 

The reason for this change became quickly apparent as he picked up another heavy looking box from the floor with an ‘oof’.

“Delivery!” he exclaimed breathlessly. “I hadn’t expected them until Monday - can you help bring these into the back?”

Crowley swallowed roughly and nodded helplessly, taking off his jacket and hanging it up. It had been a good day to wear a short sleeved shirt underneath. 

They moved the boxes into the back room in a relatively efficient manner and now Azriel sat on one small stack catching his breath while Crowley did the same on another and stared at the way his boss’ chest rose and fell and the red tinge to his neck.

“Thank you, Crowley.” huffed the blond. “We’ll have to get these unpacked post-haste.”

“What did you order?” Crowley asked, there were a fair few boxes.

“A number of missing classics and reference books - and those recommendations of yours.” was the reply.

Looking around at the boxes there was nothing on them to suggest the contents.

“Which ones?”

“Well all of them, I could hardly be expected to choose when I know little on the subject.”

The response took Crowley aback and he blinked a few times before asking:

“All of them?”

“All of them.”

* * *

Over the course of the rest of the day the two of them got to work taking inventory of the new stock and putting it in its proper place in the store. When Azriel said he had ordered all of Crowley’s recommendations he hadn’t been joking. That included the poetry books he’d added as an afterthought and out of a small hope he could read them when the chance presented itself.

By the time five in the evening rolled around they were most of the way there but there were several boxes unfinished. By all accounts it was time to go home but the day had been pleasant and Crowley had enjoyed Azriel’s intermittent declarations of admiration for certain books he unboxed - along with his silent respect when he gave anything related to the redhead’s interests over to him.

Crowley’s hands stilled over the cover of a particular volume as he looked at the beautifully rendered silhouette that comprised the artwork of the dust-jacket. It _was_ a book he had recommended, albeit a considerably more expensive looking print. Pablo Neruda’s ‘Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair’. He felt his face heat up at the realisation that Azriel had really looked through the list instead of just ordering the books from the titles. He never mentioned the ten or so poetry books that were added at the end nor did he complain about their being there. He just _bought them_. 

He smiled to himself slightly, making a note to _borrow_ this particular book for a little while when he could slip it away somewhere. It wasn’t that he couldn’t read the books here - Azriel made it very clear he could take one whenever he wanted as long as he brought it back in the same condition and absolutely did not fold the corners of any pages - it was just that he wasn’t quite ready to have that discussion.

“You are free to go.” Azriel’s voice floated over to him from a few shelves away to his right. “It’s the end of your day.”

Crowley almost dropped the book in surprise until he realised that his boss wasn’t actually looking at him.

“Do you want me to stay and help you finish?” he asked, surprised at himself.

“Would you mind terribly?” came the reply, a little unsure.

_Absolutely not._

“Depends if you can afford me.” he snorted, shrugging his shoulders.

Azriel didn’t respond other than to sigh and bring another box over to him.

* * *

In the end it had taken another couple of hours to finish unpacking the boxes and get everything documented. The clock read half past seven as Crowley stood and dusted himself off, frowning a little at some dirt under his fingernail. Still, it felt good to get everything done.

“Thank you, dear boy.” Azriel beamed at him, similarly covered in dust and a little disheveled. “I would never have finished it in one day alone!”

“Sure.” Crowley grumbled in response.

“It really was kind of you to stay and help.”

The redhead grimaced, embarrassed by all of the praise his companion was putting on him. 

“M’not kind - you owe me another twenty quid.” he said in an attempt to assuage some of the discomfort and prove that he had motivation to stay beyond wanting to help or spend time with Azriel.

“Hm, I believe you are right - but what of the extra thirty minutes?” Azriel asked, that devilish grin on his features once again.

“Charitable donation.” was the reply.

“Now, that rather undermines the purpose of your staying, doesn't it?”

Crowley shrugged his shoulders.

“Never said I was consistent.”

Azriel laughed at that, the sound was music to Crowley’s ears. 

“Then let me treat you to some food.” he offered.

“If you make a habit out of this I’ll start expecting free food all the time - like feeding a dog table scraps.” the other man teased.

The blond looked at him pityingly and started to reach for his coat.

“You don’t make the cute puppy eyes to go with it.”

“Why do you think I wear these?” Crowley tapped the side of his shades. “You’d never be able to resist.”

Even with the accessory covering much of his face Azriel could see the other man wiggling his eyebrows and sighed heavily.

“I shall take your word for it - grab your things.”

“Where to?” Crowley asked, grabbing his own jacket easily and stopping next to him.

“I’m not sure, shall we see what takes our fancy? Somewhere that serves alcohol preferably.” the blond replied.

“Alcohol? I never took you for a drinker.” Crowley feigned shock at the suggestion. Azriel smiled at him.

“Wine only, I’m afraid.” 

The taller man grinned wide, exposing so many perfect teeth.

“I can do wine - as long as it’s red.” he said in solidarity.

“Is there any other kind worth drinking?” Azriel agreed emphatically.

“Always knew you had some taste underneath all those layers of tartan.”

“I’ll not take fashion advice from a man whose ‘fun’ shirts are just a slightly lighter shade of grey.”

* * *

In the end the decision was made to buy a variety of items from a nearby patisserie and bring them back to the shop - by Azriel’s reasoning he knew the wine in his collection was good and they could get as drunk as they liked without the judgement of any disgruntled patrons. It was at this point that Crowley realised that, actually, the antique sofa and chaise lounge - which he thought were quite out of place - were an excellent edition to the shop’s furnishings. 

He was looking forward to their continued conversation. Azriel was an avid reader and as such had acquired a lot of knowledge on things over the years that may not align exactly with his own personal interests but made him capable of having extensive conversations on art and art history and poetry and plays. They dragged a couple of step ladders over from one of the shelves and used the tops of them as makeshift tables - Azriel sitting on the sofa and Crowley opposite him on the chaise. The paper bags the food had been put into made good makeshift plates to stop it getting dirty.

Crowley hadn’t really inspected the food all that closely when they bought it - happy enough to take his companion’s recommendations since he would be the one paying for it. There were several varieties of pastry, two rather calorie-dense looking slices of cake with cream and strawberries and the one item he had any input into ordering - a ham and cheese panini. Azriel had ordered his own sandwich, though Crowley wasn’t sure of the contents.

Conversation flowed easily after a few glasses of wine, Crowley’s shades beginning to impede his vision more than he wanted to keep them on. So they were discarded onto the chaise next to him.

Azriel made a strangled noise. Crowley had never taken off his shades in front of him before and all that the blond could think was _why_ and _thank God_ at the same time. They were an impossibly bright honey orange colour that stood out even from across the space between them. 

“What?” asked the redhead, aware of his companions eyes on him with an intensity he found uncomfortable.

Head spinning, Azriel put it down to the wine. Though he’d drunk far less than he intended to by the time the night came to a close. There was something there at the edge of his consciousness that demanded his attention but he refused to acknowledge it. No matter how it howled and cried out he would continue to ignore it. This was neither the time nor the place and _Crowley_ was not the person.

“Ah sorry, lost in my own thoughts.” he offered meekly. Crowley didn’t seem bothered. “You were saying?”

* * *

“With a what?” Crowley exclaimed, disbelieving.

“A squirrel!” replied Azriel, stifling his laughter.

“Holy fuck.”

“It was _nuts_.”

The redhead cringed at the attempt at a joke.

“That was awful.” he groaned.

“A little too on the nose perhaps.” his companion conceded.

They had been drinking for an hour or so now, and by the time the second bottle was almost empty they were both beginning to open up more readily to each other. 

“This is…” _Nice_ Crowley wanted to say. “Didn’t know you could loosen up this much.”

Azriel pretended to be offended and waved at him with his free hand. The other was holding his wine glass.

“Please, you make me sound like an uptight busybody.”

“This is coming from the man whose issues with Hamilton centre around the costume design and musicality when there are much bigger things to worry about.” the other man said pointedly, a frown on his features.

“I’m sorry, should I ignore the, frankly ghastly, representation of what the designers considered period-appropriate clothing?” Azriel bemoaned, his own eyebrows knitting together in discontent.

“That’s the most pressing issue? You _are_ joking, right? What about the erasure of slaves and slavery? All of the women are only connected to the story _through_ their relationships with Hamilton!”

They continued on like this for a while, Azriel enjoying Crowley’s rants so much that he started goading him into them. He didn’t think he had ever heard the man talk so much and resolved to invite him in for a drink more often. It was when they were together like this that he could forget about their working relationship and anything else save for the fact that he enjoyed Crowley’s company and that maybe they could be real friends. It felt like they already were.

Azriel felt so comfortable in the other man’s company that it was as if they had known each other for years.

After a considerably larger quantity of wine than was probably appropriate it became clear that the night was drawing to a close. Crowley was stumbling over his words and finding it harder to explain his point. Azriel was not far behind him. Throughout their conversations the blond had been finding it harder and harder to ignore the, quite frankly, enchanting tone of his companion’s irises. Crowley was a being composed of angles and shapes, heat and fire - the way the lamplight illuminated his features was a tragedy. Azriel found himself lamenting the fact that he would have to keep every complement he wanted to bestow on the other man inside his head.

When Crowley stretched himself out across the chaise like a cat a realisation smacked the blond in the face and he felt the panic trickle down into his gut and spread through his limbs.

He thought Crowley was gorgeous. Marvelous. _Beautiful_. 

Looking down at his half-empty glass he frowned at it as though all the fault lay with the wine and that staring at it would make it feel guilty.

This would _not_ do.

Rising a little too quickly from his seat he stumbled and braced himself against the wall, Crowley was up in a flash too - concern evident on his features. He also took a moment to find his footing before reaching a hand out to grab Azriel’s arm.

“You okay?” he asked, and the hand around the other man’s arm burned like a brand.

“Yes, yes fine!” Azriel squeaked, pulling away. “Just a little in-inebr- drunk.” he mumbled. 

Crowley laughed a little, eyes shining.

“Makes two of us. Probably bed time.”

“What?” the blond panicked for a second before realising there was nothing suggestive in his companion’s tone of voice. “Oh, oh yes of course.”

“I’ll get a taxi. Pick up the car tomorrow.”

Crowley was smiley, seemingly pleased with the events of the evening and content to wait for his ride.

“Shall I wait with you?” Azriel asked. He didn’t know if staying here with his friend was better or worse than going to bed.

“Don’t worry about it - pass me the keys. I’ll put em through the door when I’m gone.” The redhead stretched out a hand, waiting for the other man to put the shop keys into it. “Job’s a gooden.” 

“If you’re sure…” Azriel replied, fishing the keys from his pocket clumsily and attempting to deposit them into Crowley’s hand.

He was struggling with this until the other man simply grabbed his hand with his own and placed the other one atop the keys. 

“There we go.” he said, no sign of discomfort on his face.

Azriel mumbled a hasty goodnight and retreated. He didn’t make it all the way up the stairs before he sat down on one, his back against the cool wall. It was official, he thought, as his hand continued to tingle with the sweetest warmth where Crowley had touched him. 

He liked the man. A little too much.

_Shit._

* * *

Crowley’s heart was hammering in his chest even as he locked the door behind himself and put the keys through the letterbox - with difficulty. His blood pressure was still sky high when he got into the taxi and confirmed his destination. 

He was on another planet even as he stumbled into his flat, downed a glass of water and flopped onto his bed.

There was something about the way that Azriel had looked at him when their hands touched, something about his flustered expression and the way he spoke. If Crowley didn’t know better he would say that he was _embarrassed_ . _Affected_ even. 

He put it down to the alcohol making him wish for things that weren’t real.

Azriel had been so kind and bright and sweet the whole evening. He was smart and had a sharp wit to match Crowley’s own. Their conversation was natural and fun and engaging. His smile could light up a whole room and everything about him was warm and safe and inviting. The redhead was torn between a desire to curl up in that warmth like a snake and bask in it and to rip away that innocent facade and see what lies underneath.

He would keep on as he was, nothing was worth ruining what he had going right now. A steady income and a good friendship with a man he enjoyed spending time with.

A little too much if he was honest with himself.

Honesty had never been Crowley’s strong suit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay - I actually re-wrote this chapter so much it ended up being around 15k long so I've broken it down over the next few chapters. Which means they'll be much easier to get out on time!
> 
> Expect updates on Mondays and Thursdays going forward. Ambitious but if that doesn't work out it will be at least every Monday.


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